YELLOW 
BUTTERFLIES 


MARY  RAYMOND  SHIPMAN  ANDREWS 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE" 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 

Bogardus  Brodt 


BY  MARY  R.  S.  ANDREWS 

JOY  IN  THE  MORNING 

THE  ETERNAL  FEMININE 

AUGUST  FIRST 

THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  MILITANTS 

BOB  AND  THE  GUIDES 

CROSSES  OF  WAR  (Poem») 

YELLOW   BUTTERFLIES 

HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

HER  COUNTRY 

OLD  GLORY 

THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

THE  COURAGE  OF  THE  COMMONPLACE 

THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 

THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 


BY 
Mary  Raymond  Shipman  Andrews 


"An   Unknown   American  who 
gave  his  life  in  the  World  War." 


NEW  YORK 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  B* 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


COPYRIGHT.  1922.  BY  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  CO. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 
Published  December,  1922 


LOAN  STACK 
GIFT 


& 
i 


THIS  STORY  IS  DEDICATED  TO 
THOSE  AMERICANS  WHO  GAVE 
IN  THE  GREAT  WAR  EVEN  MORE 
THAN  LIFE — TO  THE  BLINDED 


934 


NOTE 

Throughout  this  story  there  are  sen 
tences  and  paragraphs  quoted,  taken 
bodily  from  a  press  account  of  the  com 
ing  of  the  American  Unknown  Soldier. 
If  other  sentences  or  phrases  occur  for 
which  proper  credit  has  not  been  given, 
it  is  because  the  story-teller's  mind  was 
so  saturated  with  the  beauty  of  this  ac 
count  that  its  wording  seemed  the  inevi 
table  form. 

For  such  borrowed  grace  the1  writer 
offers  grateful  acknowledgment  to  the 
young  reporter  who,  given  what  is  sure 
ly  the  most  thrilling  episode  in  all  his 
tory  to  write  about,  has  made  what  has 
been  well-called  "the  finest  bit  of  news 
paper  work  ever  done."  Acknowledg 
ment  and  thanks  to  Mr.  Kirk  Simpson. 

MARY  RAYMOND  SHIPMAN  ANDREWS. 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

OUT  from  the  door  of  the  house 
burst  the  laughing,  shouting 
little  lad.  He  raced  across  the 
grass  and  halted  by  the  tulip-bed; 
there,  with  yet  more  shouts  of  full- 
throated  baby  laughter,  he  turned  to 
look  back  at  his  young  mother,  rac 
ing  after  him,  standing  now  in  the 
doorway.  His  head  was  yellow  as  a 
flower,  almost  as  yellow  as  the  tulips, 
and  the  spun-silk,  glittering  hair  of 
five  years  old  curled  tight  in  a  man 
ner  of  aureole.  As  the  girl  gazed  at 
him,  glorying  in  him,  suddenly  the 
sun  came  brilliantly  from  under  a 
cloud,  and,  as  if  at  a  signal,  out  of  the 
clover-patch  at  the  edge  of  the  lawn 
HI 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

stormed  a  myriad  of  butterflies  and 
floated  about  the  golden  head. 

"Oh,  the  butterflies  take  you  for  a 
flower,  Dicky,"  cried  the  girl. 

The  little  chap  stood  quite  still, 
smiling  and  blinking  through  the 
winged  sunshine,  and  then,  behold, 
three  or  four  of  the  lovely  things 
fluttered  down  on  his  head.  The 
young  woman  flashed  out  and  caught 
him  and  hugged  him  till  he  squealed 
lustily. 

>  "Don't,  muvver,"  remonstrated 
Dicky.  "You'll  scare  my  'ittle  birds. 
They  'ike  us,  muvver." 

"It's  good  luck  to  have  a  butterfly 
light  on  you,"  she  informed  him,  and 
then,  in  a  flash  of  some  unplaced 
memory,  with  the  quick  mysticism  of 
her  Irish  blood:  "A  butterfly  is  the 
symbol  of  immortality." 
[2] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

'  'Esh,"     agreed     Dicky    gravely. 

"Esh  a  'sympum — "  and  there  he 
lost  himself,  and  threw  back  his  head 
and  roared  rich  laughter  at  the  droll 
long  word. 

"It  must  have  looked  pretty,"  the 
boy's  father  agreed  that  night.  "I 
wonder  what  sort  they  were.  I  used 
to  collect  them.  There's  a  book — " 
He  went  to  the  shelves  and  searched. 
"This  is  it."  There  were  pages  here 
and  there  of  colored  pictures.  "No. 
2,"  he  read,  and  pointed  to  a  list. 
"The  Cloudless  Sulphur.  Were  they 
solid  yellow?"  He  turned  a  page. 
"  'The  Cloudless  Sulphur/  "  he  be 
gan  reading  aloud.  "  'Large,  two  and 
a  half  inches.  Wings  uniform  bright 
canary  color.  Likely  to  light  on  yel 
low  flowers;  social;  it  flies  in  masses 
and  congregates  on  flowers.  Habit  of 
13] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

migrating  in  flocks  from  Southeast 
to  Northwest  in  the  spring  and  from 
Northwest  to  Southeast  in  the  au 
tumn.  Food,  cassia,  etc.  Family, 
Pieridse.'  That's  the  fellow,"  decided 
the  boy's  father,  learned  in  butter 
flies.  "A  Pierid.  'Many  butterflies 
hide  under  clover,'  "  he  read  along, 
"  'and  down  in  grasses — pass  the 
nights  there.  Some  sorts  only  come 
out  freely  in  sunshine.'  Didn't  you 
say  the  sun  came  ?  " 

"All  at  once.  They  flew  up  then 
as  if  at  a  command."  She  nodded. 
"That's  exactly  the  creature.  And 
where  it  says  about  lighting  on  flow 
ers  of  the  same  color — they  did  take 
Dicky's  head  for  a  flower,  didn't 
they,  Tom?" 

"It  certainly  seems  as  if  they  did." 
The  man  smiled.  "Kentucky  is  likely 
[4] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

on  the  line  of  their  spring  migration 
Northwesterly.  I  reckon  Dicky's 
friends  are  the  Cloudless  Sulphur." 

Dicky's  father  died  when  the  boy 
was  eleven.  The  years  ran  on.  Life 
adjusted  itself  as  life  must,  and  the 
child  grew,  as  that  other  Child  twenty 
centuries  back,  in  wisdom  and  stat 
ure  and  in  favor  with  God  and  man.' 
There  might  have  been  more  boys  in 
America  as  upstanding  in  body  and 
character,  as  loving  and  clever  and 
strong  and  merry,  as  beautiful  within 
and  without  as  her  boy,  the  woman 
considered,  but  she  had  never  seen 
one.  His  very  faults  were  dear  hu 
man  qualities  which  made  him  more 
adorable.  With  his  tenderness  and 
his  roughness,  his  teachableness  and 
his  stubbornness,  his  terror  of  senti 
ment  and  his  gusts  of  heavenly  sweet 
[5] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

love-making,  the  boy  satisfied  her  to 
the  end  of  her  soul.  Buoyancy  found 
her  again,  and  youth,  and  the  joy  of 
an  uphill  road  with  this  gay,  strong 
comrade  keeping  step  along  it.  Then 
the  war  came.  All  his  life  she  had 
missed  no  chance  to  make  her  citizen 
first  of  all  things  an  American.  And 
now  that  carefully  fed  flame  of  pa 
triotism  flamed  to  cover  all  America. 
"We  must  go  in,  mother.  Gosh ! 
it's  only  decent.  We  could  bring 
peace.  We  must  go  in,"  he  raged.  He 
was  too  young  to  go  across  and  he 
raged  more  at  his  youth.  His  mother 
gloried  in  and  shivered  at  his  rage. 
At  last  America  was  in,  and  the  boy, 
who  had  trained  in  his  university, 
could  not  fling  himself  fast  enough 
into  the  service.  The  woman,  as  hun 
dreds  of  thousands  of  other  American 
[6] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

women,  was  no  slacker.  There  was  a 
jingle  in  the  papers: 

"America,  he  is  my  only  one, 
My  hope,  my  pride,  and  joy; 
But  if  I  had  another 
He  should  march  beside  his  brother, 
America,  here's  my  boy !" 

The  jingle  hit  straight  at  armies  of 
women  in  those  days. 

No  officers'  training-camp  for  Dick; 
he  would  go  as  an  enlisted  man  with 
the  rank  and  file  of  American  men. 

"But  you're  officer  material,"  com 
plained  his  mother.  "Aren't  you 
wasting  power  that  the  country  may 
need?" 

"If  I  can  win  shoulder-bars,  honey, 
hooray !"  said  Dick.  "Otherwise,  me 
for  a  dough-boy." 

So  as  a  dough-boy  he  went  to  Camp 
Meade,  but  in  three  months  wore  the 
[7] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

stripes  of  a  sergeant.  Radiant,  he 
tumbled  in  at  home  a  week  later, 
such  a  joyful  lad  that  he  sputtered 
ecstasy  and  slang.  Tremendous  he 
looked  in  his  uniform,  fresh  colored 
from  cold  barracks  and  constant  ex 
ercise  and  in  an  undreamed  pink  of 
condition. 

"I  never  considered  you  a  delicate 
person,"  the  woman  spoke  up  to  the 
six  feet  two  of  him,  "but  now  you're 
overpowering,  you're  beefy." 

"Couldn't  kill  me  with  an  axe," 
assented  Dick  cheerfully,  and  back 
in  her  brain  a  hideous,  unformed 
thought  stirred,  of  things  that  were 
not  axes,  that  could  kill  easily  even 
this  magnificent  young  strength. 

They  were  as  gay  together  as  if  all 

the  training  and  the  uniform  and  the 

stir  and  panoply  of  war  were  merely 

[8] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

a  new  and  rather  thrilling  game.  She 
saw  to  it  that  there  were  theatres  and 
dances  and  girls  doing,  and  the  lad 
threw  himself  into  everything  with, 
however,  a  delicious  grumble  after 
each  party: 

"I  don't  get  a  chance  to  see  you  at 
all."  That  was  music. 

And  then  the  short,  gay  leave  was 
done  and  Dick  back  at  Meade  again. 
The  winter  months  went,  with  letters 
thickly  coming  and  going.  And  late 
in  May  he  wrote  that  he  had  leave 
once  more  for  two  days,  and  instant 
ly  he  was  there.  There  was  no  word 
as  to  what  the  sudden  leave  meant, 
but  they  knew.  When  it  was  possible 
our  soldiers  due  to  sail  were  given 
this  short  flying  visit  to  their  homes. 
Transports  were  going  all  the  time 
now;  great  ship  followed  great  ship 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

till  it  seemed  as  if  the  Atlantic  must 
be  brown  with  khaki.  And  not  the 
nearest  of  any  must  know  when  his 
time  was,  for  this  was  one  bit  of  the 
national  patriotism,  to  guard  the 
knowledge  of  sailing  ships  from  the 
enemy.  So  the  boy  told  nothing,  but 
his  eyes  embraced  her  with  a  burn 
ing  word  unspoken.  And  her  eyes 
met  them  with  certain  knowledge. 

"Let's  cut  out  the  girls  and  balls 
this  time,"  he  said.  And  one  day, 
apropos  of  nothing:  "You're  a 
peach." 

She  smiled  back  cheerfully  as  wo 
men  were  smiling  at  boys  all  over  the 
United  States  at  that  date.  "I  could 
n't  bear  it  if  you  weren't  in  the  ser 
vice,"  she  said. 

In  a  few  minutes — it  appeared — the 
two  days  were  over.  "Run  across  for 

[10] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

one  second  and  say  good-by  to  Lyn- 
nette,"  she  suggested,  when  the  rac 
ing  hours  were  within  three  of  their 
end.  Lynnette  was  the  girl  next  door 
who  had  grown  up  in  the  shadow  of 
Dick's  bigness,  a  little  thing  two 
years  younger,  shy  and  blunt  and  not 
just  a  pretty  girl,  but  with  luminous 
eyes  and  a  heart  of  gold.  Dick  had  to 
be  prodded  a  bit  to  be  nice  to  Lyn 
nette. 

"I  don't  want  to  miss  one  second  of 
you,  honey,"  he  objected. 

"Don't  you  dare  stay  over  a  sec 
ond.  But  a  glimpse  would  mean  a 
lot  to  her,  and  she's  a  darling  to 
me." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  agreed  Dick.  "Be 
cause  she's  a  darling  to  you — "  and 
he  swung  off. 

"Dick — "  as  he  sprang  from  the 
[ii] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

gallery.  He  turned.  "Kiss  her  good- 
by,  Dick." 

"What  sort  of  a  mother !" 

"She'll  object,  but  she'll  like  it." 
"You  little  devil,"  Dick  chuckled, 
"can't  you  let  a  fellow  handle  his 
own  kissing?"  And  started  again, 
easy,  elastic,  made  of  sliding  mus 
cles. 

"Oh,  Dick !"  called  his  mother  once 
more,  and  once  more  the  brown  fig 
ure  halted.  "Now,  then,  woman?" 

"Don't  peck,  Dick;  kiss  her  a  thor 
ough  one." 

Dick's  laughter  rang  across  the  lit 
tle  place.  The  echo  of  that  big  laugh 
ter  in  the  woman  was  not  a  quick 
ened  pulse  of  gladness  as  it  had  been 
all  his  days;  a  sick  aching  answered 
the  beloved  sound,  and  the  stab  of  a 
thought — would  ever  Dick  laugh 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

across  the  garden  again?  With  that 
he  was  back,  grinning. 

"I  did  it,"  stated  Dick.  "It's  not 
often  a  chap's  commanding  office* 
sends  him  out  with  orders  for  a  kiss 
ing  attack,  so  I  put  my  elbows  into 
it  and  made  a  good  job.  She's 
kissed  to  pieces." 

"Dick!" 

"Well,  now!  It'll  teach  you  to  go 
careful  how  you  start  a  man  on  them 
tricks.  Lynnette's  a  worthy  child, 
but  I'd  never  have  thought  of  kissing 
her.  Yet  it  wasn't  so  bad.  Rather 
subtle."  He  licked  his  lips  tentatively. 

"Dicky  !  Vulgar,  vulgar  boy  !" 

''You  know,  I  believe  she  did  like 
it,"  confided  Dick. 

Then  very  soon,  in  the  middle  of  the 
sunshiny,  warm  morning  he  went. 
In  the  hall,  where  they  had  raced  and 

[13] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

played  games  long  ago,  she  told  him 
good-by,  doing  a  difficult  best  to  give 
him  cheer  and  courage  to  remember, 
not  heart-break.  Something  helped 
her  unexpectedly,  reaction,  maybe,  of 
a  chord  overstrained;  likely  the  good 
Lord  ordered  it;  His  hand  reaches 
into  queer  brain-twists.  She  said 
small,  silly  things  that  made  the  boy 
laugh,  till  at  last  the  towering  figure 
was  upon  her  and  she  was  crushed 
into  khaki,  with  his  expert  rifleman's 
badge  digging  into  her  forehead.  She 
was  glad  of  the  hurt.  The  small  de 
fenses  had  gone  down  and  she  knew 
that  only  high  Heaven  could  get  her 
through  the  next  five  seconds  with 
a  proper  record  as  a  brave  man's 
mother.  In  five  seconds  he  turned  and 
fled,  and  with  a  leap  was  through  the 
door.  Gone !  She  tossed  out  her  arms 

[14] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

as  if  shot,  and  fled  after  him.  Al 
ready  he  was  across  the  lawn,  by  the 
tulip-bed,  and  suddenly  he  wheeled 
at  the  patch  of  color  and  his  visored 
cap  was  off,  and  he  was  kissing  his 
hand  with  the  deep  glow  in  his  eyes 
she  had  seen  often  lately.  It  was  as  if 
the  soul  of  him  came  close  to  the 
windows  and  looked  out  at  her.  His 
blond  hair  in  the  sunlight  was  al 
most  as  yellow  as  on  that  other  day 
long  ago  when —  What  was  this  ?  Up 
from  the  clover  in  the  ditch,  filling 
all  the  air  with  fluttering  gold, 
stormed  again  a  flight  of  yellow  but 
terflies,  the  Cloudless  Sulphur  on 
their  spring  migration.  The  boy  as  he 
stood  looking  back  at  her  shouted 
young  laughter  and  the  winged  things 
glittered  about  him,  and  with  that 
two  lighted  on  his  head. 

f  151 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

"  Good  luck !  It's  for  good  luck, 
mother,"  he  called. 

She  watched,  smiling  determinedly, 
dwelling  on  details,  the  uniform,  the 
folds  of  brown  wool  puttees,  the 
bronze  shine  on  his  shoes,  the  gold 
spots  of  light  flickering  about  his 
head.  He  wheeled,  stumbling  a  bit, 
and  then  the  light  feet  sprang  away; 
there  was  no  Dick  there  now,  only  a 
glimmering,  moving  cloud  of  yellow 
— meaningless.  The  tulip-bed — sun 
shine  —  butterflies  —  silence.  The 
world  was  empty.  She  clutched  at  her 
chest  as  if  this  sudden,  sick,  drop 
ping  away  of  life  were  physical.  His 
triumphant  last  word  came  back  to 
her,  "It's  for  good  luck,  mother"; 
then  other  words  followed,  words 
which  she  had  spoken  years  ago. 

"And  for  immortality." 

[16] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

Immortality !  She  beat  her  hands 
against  the  wall.  Not  Dick — not  her 
boy — her  one  thing.  Not  immortal 
ity  for  him,  yet.  Not  for  years  and 
years — fifty — sixty.  He  had  a  right 
to  long,  sweet  mortal  life  before  that 
terrible  immortality.  She  wanted  him 
mortal,  close,  the  flesh  and  blood 
which  she  knew.  It  was  not  to  be 
borne,  this  sending  him  away  to — 
Oh,  God !  The  thousands  on  thou 
sands  of  strong  young  things  like 
Dick  who  had  already  passed  to  that 
horrible,  unknown  immortality.  The 
word  meant  to  her  then  only  death, 
only  a  frantic  terror;  the  subtle,  un 
derlying,  enormous  hope  of  it  missed 
her  in  the  black  hour. 

A  letter  came  next  day  from  camp, 
and  the  next,  and  every  day  for  a 
week,  and  she  pulled  herself  together 
[17] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

and  went  about  her  busy  hours  min 
ute  by  minute  cheerfully,  as  one 
must.  She  disregarded  the  fact  that 
inside  of  her  an  odd  mental-moral- 
spiritual-physical  arrangement  which 
is  called  a  heart  lay  quite  defenseless, 
and  that  shortly  a  dagger  was  going 
to  be  struck  into  it.  So  when  the  dag 
ger  came,  folded  in  a  yellow  Western 
Union  envelope,  it  was  exactly  as  bad 
as  if  there  had  been  no  preparation  at 
all.  Dick  had  sailed.  She  spun  about 
and  caught  at  a  table.  And  then  went 
on  quietly  with  the  five  hundred  lit 
tle  cheese-cloth  "sponges"  which  she 
had  promised  to  have  at  the  Red 
Cross  rooms  to-morrow.  Ghastly  lit 
tle  things.  So  the  boy  went,  one  of 
two  million  to  go,  but  yet,  as  most  of 
the  others  were,  the  only  one.  And 
two  weeks  later,  it  might  be,  came 

[18] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 
another  telegram;  a  queerly  worded 
thing  from  the  war  office: 

"The  ship  on  which  I  sailed  has  ar 
rived  safely  in  port." 

What  ship?  What  port?  After 
what  adventures  ?  But  the  great  fact 
remained;  he  was,  at  least,  overseas, 
beyond  the  first  great  peril.  She  flung 
herself  into  war  work  and  wrote 
every  day  a  letter  with  its  vague 
military  address  ending  in  A.  E.  F. 
And  got  back  many  letters  full  of  en 
thusiasm,  of  adventure,  of  old  friends 
and  new,  of  dear  French  people  who 
had  been  good  to  him — but  every 
body  was  good  to  this  boy.  Of  hard 
training,  too,  and  a  word  of  praise 
from  high  quarters  once  or  twice, 
passed  on  secretly,  proudly  to  the  one 
person  to  whom  a  fellow  could  repeat 
such  things.  It  was  a  life  crowded 
[19] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

with  happiness  and  hardship  and 
comradeship  and  worth-while  work. 
And  then,  soon,  with  danger.  Through 
all  sordidness  and  horror  it  was  a  life 
vitalized  by  enormous  incentive,  a 
life  whose  memory  few  of  those  who 
lived  it  would  give  up  for  everything 
else  that  any  career  might  offer.  The 
power  of  these  gay,  commonplace, 
consecrated  boys'  lives  reached  across 
oceans  and  swung  nations  into  conse 
cration.  Dick's  mother  moved  gladly 
in  the  huge  orbit,  for  war  work  meant 
to  her  Dick.  The  days  went.  He  was 
in  action  at  times  now,  and  wrote 
that  his  life  was  a  charmed  one,  and 
that  he  walked  safe  through  dangers; 
wrote  also  the  pitiful  bit  of  statistics 
which  boys  all  told  to  their  mothers, 
about  the  small  percentage  of  killed 
and  wounded;  wrote  as  well  the 

[20] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

heroic  sweet  thoughts  which  came 
from  depths  of  young  souls  which  had 
never  before  known  these  depths. 

"If  I'm  killed,  darling  child,  honey, 
after  all  it's  not  much  different.  It 
wouldn't  be  really  long  before  we'd 
be  playing  together  again.  And  I've 
had  the  joy  and  the  usefulness  of 
fifty  years  of  living  in  these  last 
months.  What  more  could  you  ask? 
The  best  thing  to  do  with  a  life  is  to 
give  it  away — you  taught  me  that — 
and  this  certainly  is  the  best  way  to 
give  it,  for  our  America.  And  don't 
worry  about  my  suffering  if  I'm 
wounded;  there's  not  much  to  that. 
Things  hurt  and  you  stand  it — that 
happens  in  every  life — and  we  wig 
gle  and  get  through.  It  hurt  like  the 
dickens  when  I  had  pneumonia,  don't 
you  remember?  So,  behold  the 

[21] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

straight  dope  of  the  wise  man  Dick, 
and  follow  thereby.  Nothing  can  hap 
pen  that's  unbearable;  keep  it  in  your 
mind,  precious.  Live  on  the  surface — 
don't  go  feeling  any  more  than  you 
can  help." 

Thousands  of  others  found  the 
sense  of  that  sentence  a  way  out  of 
impossibility,  as  this  woman  did.  She 
slept  nights  and  worked  days  and 
wrote  letters  and  rejoiced  in  getting 
them,  and  shunned  like  poison 
thoughts  that  thronged  below  the 
threshold,  thoughts  she  dared  not 
meet.  Weeks  wore  on,  months;  the 
Germans  were  being  pushed  back; 
with  a  shivering  joy  she  heard  peo 
ple  say  that  the  war  could  not  last 
long;  he  might — he  might  come  home 
safe.  She  knew  as  that  shaft  of  golden 
hope  winged  across  her  brain,  from 

[22] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

the  reeling  rapture  of  it  she  knew  how 
little  hope  she  had  ever  had.  But  she 
whispered  Dick's  wise  sentence  once 
in  a  while,  "Nothing  can  happen 
that's  unbearable,"  and  she  held  her 
head  high  for  Dick.  Then  the  one 
thing  which  had  never  entered  her 
mind  happened.  Dick  was  reported 
among  the  missing. 

Missing. 

Let  any  mother  of  a  boy  consider 
what  that  means.  Anything.  Every 
thing.  "Nothing  can  happen  that's 
unbearable,"  said  Dick.  But  this  was. 
A  woman  can't  stay  sane  and  face 
that  word  "missing" — can  she?  This 
woman  gasped  that  question  of  her 
self.  Yet  she  must  stay  sane,  for  Dick 
might  come  back.  Oh,  he  might  even 
come  back  safe  and  sound.  They  did 
come  through  prison  camps — some- 

[23] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

times — and  get  back  to  health.  Pris 
on  camps.  She  fell  to  remembering 
about  nights  when  she  had  crept  into 
his  room  to  see  that  he  was  covered 
up.  Mines.  But  that  thought  she 
could  not  think.  And  the  difficult 
days  crawled  on,  and  no  news  came 
and  no  more  gay  letters,  with  their 
little  half -sentences  of  love-making, 
shining  like  jewels  out  of  the  pages, 
pages  each  one  more  valuable  than 
heaps  of  gold.  No  letters;  no  news; 
swiftly  and  steadily  her  fair  hair  was 
going  gray.  The  Armistice  arrived, 
and  then,  after  a  while,  troops  were 
coming  home.  Because  Dick  would 
have  wanted  it,  because  she  herself 
must  honor  these  glorious  lads  who 
were,  each  one,  somehow  partly  Dick, 
she  threw  herself  into  the  greetings, 
and  many  a  boy  was  made  happy 

[24] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

and  welcome  by  the  slim,  tall,  still- 
young  woman  with  the  startling 
white  hair,  who  knew  so  well  what  to 
say  to  a  chap.  Outwardly  all  her  ways 
stayed  the  same.  No  one  of  her  friends 
noticed  a  difference  except  that 
sometimes  one  would  say:  "I  wonder 
what  keeps  her  going  ?  Does  she  hope 
yet  that  Dick  may  come  back?" 
Surely  she  hoped  it.  She  would  not 
wear  black.  Till  certainty  came  she 
must  hope.  Still,  little  by  little,  as 
drop  by  drop  her  heart's  blood 
leaked,  she  was  coming  to  believe 
him  dead;  coming  nearly  to  hope  it. 
At  the  same  time  in  the  tortured,  un 
resting  brain,  the  brain  that  held  so 
large  an  area  of  mysticism  from  Irish 
forbears,  in  that  cave  of  weaving 
thoughts  there  was  still  hope  of  a 
miracle.  The  child  next  door,  Lyn- 

[25] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

nette,  not  realizing  to  what  a  danger 
ous  borderland  of  sanity  she  was  urg 
ing  desperate  footsteps,  helped  her 
frame  her  vague  theory  of  comfort. 

"  Nothing  is  sure  yet.  They  don't 
begin  to  know  about  all  the  missing," 
argued  Lynnette,  dark  eyes  shining. 
"Dick  may  have  been  carried  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth;  he  may  not  know 
even  now  that  the  war  is  over.  He's 
so  strong,  nothing  could — could  hurt 
him,"  stammered  Lynnette,  and  went 
scarlet  with  a  stab  of  knowledge  of 
things,  things  that  even  Dick's  splen 
did  body  could  not  weather. 

"Miracles  do  happen.  Do  you  know, 
Lynnette,  it's  as  if  somebody  whis 
pered  that  to  me  over  and  over. '  Mir 
acles  do  happen — miracles  do  hap 
pen.'  My  brain  aches  with  that  sen 
tence."  She  was  still  a  moment.  "I 

[26] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

saw  what  you  were  thinking.  Of  the 
— otherwise.  I  can't  face  the — other 
wise."  Her  voice  thinned  to  a  whis 
per.  "It's  worse  than  death,  any 
possible  otherwise,  now.  When  all  the 
prisoners  are  freed  and  all  the  sol 
diers  are  coming — home.  Lynnette — 
I  hope  he's  dead." 

The  girl  tossed  up  a  hand. 

"Yes,  child.  But  suffering— I  can't 
have  him  suffering — long  pain.  It 
can't  be.  Oh,  God,  don't  let  it  be 
that!" 

Lynnette's  brown  head  dropped  on 
the  woman's  two  hands  and  she 
kissed  them  with  passion. 

"I've  got  another  thought,  honey- 
child,  and  I'll  try  to  tell  you,  but  it's 
complicated."  She  was  silent  again, 
reviewing  the  waves  of  the  ocean  of 
her  theory.  The  aching,  unending 
[27] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

thoughts  had  been  busy  with  this 
theory.  Harmlessly,  unnoticed,  the 
mind  overwrought  had  been  develop 
ing  a  mania.  Peace.  Had  her  boy,  had 
all  the  boys,  died  for  nothing  ?  They 
went,  the  marching  hundreds  of 
thousands,  with  an  ideal;  no  one  who 
talked  to  any  number  of  soldiers  of 
our  armies  could  fail  to  know  that 
latent  in  practically  all  was  an  una 
shamed  idealism.  The  roughest  speci 
men  would  look  you  in  the  eye  and — 
spitting  first  likely — make  amazing 
statements  about  saving  the  world, 
about  showing  'em  if  Americans 
would  fight  for  their  flag,  about  pay 
ing  our  debt  to  France,  and,  yes — in 
a  quiet,  matter-of-fact  way — about 
dying  for  his  country. 

"To  every  man  a  different  meaning,  yet 
Faith  to  the  thing  that  set  him  at  his 
best, 

[28] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

Something  above  the  blood  and  dirt 

and  sweat, 
Something  apart.    May  God  forget  the 

rest." 

The  woman,  appealing  and  winning, 
had  seen  this  side  of  the  enlisted  man 
more  than  most;  she  had  brooded  over 
it,  and  over  what  was  due  to  four  mil 
lions  of  boys  giving  themselves  to 
save  the  peace  of  the  world.  Shouldn't 
peace,  after  such  sacrifice,  be  as 
sured?  Should  the  great  burnt  of 
fering  fail?  Should  the  war-to-end- 
war  lead  to  other  wars  ?  God  forbid. 
By  infinite  little  links  she  came  to  tie 
her  boy's  coming  home  to  the  coming 
of  world  peace.  What  more  typical  of 
America  could  there  be  than  Dick? 
An  enlisted  man — she  rejoiced  in 
that  now;  of  the  educated  classes,  but 
representing  the  rank  and  file  as  well 
as  the  brains  and  gentle  blood  of  this 
[29] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

land;  not  too  poor,  yet  not  rich;  in 
his  youth  and  strength  and  forth- 
going  power  the  visible  spirit  of  a 
young,  strong,  eager  country.  She 
put  all  this  into  halting  yet  clear 
enough  words  to  the  girl. 

"I  see,"  Lynnette  picked  up  the 
thread.  "Dick  is  America.  He's  a 
symbol.  Nobody  else  could  combine 
so  many  elements  as  Dick." 

"I  think  you  understand.  It's  won 
derful  to  be  able  to  tell  it  to  some  one 
who  understands.  It  has  eaten  my 
soul."  She  breathed  fast.  "Listen — • 
this  is  what,  somehow,  I  believe,  and 
nothing  could  change  my  belief.  Dick 
is  going  to  bring  peace  to  his  country 
and  to  the  world.  God  has  chosen 
him — Dick.  Alive  or  dead  his  coming 
will  mean — peace.  Peace!"  The  vi 
sions  of  many  generations  of  mystic 

[30] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

Gaels  were  in  her  eyes  as  they  lifted 
and  gazed  out  at  the  branches  which 
swayed  slowly,  hypnotically  across  a 
pale  sky.  The  girl's  twisting  hands 
holding  hers,  she  went  on  to  unroll 
the  fabric  which  had  woven  itself  on 
the  unresting  loom  of  her  brain,  a 
fabric  which  was,  judged  by  a  med 
ical  standard,  madness.  The  chain  of 
crooked  logic  was  after  this  fashion: 
America  was  the  nation  to  bring  at 
the  last  peace;  Dick  was  the  typical 
American;  with  his  home-coming 
peace  would  come  home  to  the  coun 
try,  and  so  to  the  world.  Till  Dick 
came  home  there  could  be  no  surety, 
no  rest  for  the  flag  which  he  served. 
Other  women  died  or  went  mad;  this 
one  alone,  perhaps,  fashioned  her  sor 
row  into  a  vigil  for  the  salvation  of 
her  land. 

[31] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

Then  one  day  Lynnette  flew  across 
the  lawn  and  stood  before  her. 
"You've  seen  the  paper?" 

"I  went  to  the  Red  Cross  early.  I 
haven't  read  it."  Her  pulse  stopped. 
" Lynnette !  Not— Dick?" 

"Oh,  no — oh,  no!"  Lynnette  went 
crimson  painfully.  Another  girl  would 
have  had  her  arms  around  the  wo 
man,  but  not  this  one.  To  show  feel 
ing  was  like  pulling  teeth  to  Lyn 
nette.  "It's  not  that,"  she  said. " But— 
there's  to  be  a  peace  conference.  You 
know.  And  they  want  to  bring  back 
for  us  at  that  time,  Armistice  Day,  an 
unknown  soldier." 

"The  two  things."  Yes— the  two 
things.  What  could  the  two  things 
mean  but  her  vision,  her  hope  for  the 
world.  Dick  was  coming.  He  was  to  be 
the  unknown  soldier.  Dick  was  com- 

[32] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

ing,  carrying  peace  in  his  dead  hands. 
Who  else  could  it  be?  People,  mere 
people,  could  not  see  how  that  was 
fitting  and  inevitable;  but  she  saw  it; 
she  knew  it;  God  would  take  care  of 
it.  The  unknown  soldier  would  be 
Dick.  He  would  bring,  mystically, 
certainly,  success  to  the  gathering  in 
Washington.  And  the  Lord  God 
would  give  her  a  sign.  Each  day  she 
rose  hoping  the  sign  might  be  that 
day.  Each  night  she  lay  down  sure  of 
its  coming,  willing  to  wait. 
"Lynnette,  I'll  wear — those  clothes, 


now." 


And  when  the  girl  came  across  the 
lawn  and  found  her  a  few  days  later 
in  new  black,  with  the  dramatic  gold 
star  on  her  arm,  Lynnette  dropped 
suddenly  in  a  heap. 

"Oh,"    the    woman    cried.    "You 

[33] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

hadn't  given  up  hope."  And  then: 
"Lynnette — you  loved  Dicky,  too." 

With  that  Lynnette  was  standing 
before  her,  her  head  high,  a  trembling 
smile  on  her  face.  "I  always  loved 
him.  And  now  I  may  tell  you — he 
loved  me."  The  woman  stared. 
"Yes,"  Lynnette  said.  "I  didn't 
dream  it  till  that  last  morning,  when 
he  ran  across — and  he  kissed  me. 
He'd  never  kissed  me  before.  It — it 
wasn't  just  a  little  kiss  to — an  old 
playmate."  The  words  came  diffi 
cultly.  "It — would  be  impossible  to 
tell  it  except  to  you.  But  it  was — & 
long  kiss.  He — didn't  say  anything. 
I've  thought  it  over  and  over  and 
I  think  he — believed  he  shouldn't. 
Somehow.  But  that  kiss — said  it. 
For  me.  I  know  Dick — loved  me." 

The  woman  caught  the  small  figure 
so  that  the  wet  eyes  could  not  see  her. 

[34] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

"My  Lynnette!"  Never  on  earth 
should  the  child  know  the  true  story 
of  Dick's  kiss. 

Then  it  was  November  and  she 
went  to  Washington.  It  meant  saving 
money  for  months,  but  there  was 
no  question;  the  journey  was  as  in 
evitable  as  death.  Likely  the  Lord 
waited  in  Washington  with  that  sign 
which  she  would  know  when  it  came. 
Many  American  women  are  tall  and 
slender,  with  lines  of  distinction ;  this 
was  one  of  them.  In  her  sombre  dress 
with  sheer  white  at  neck  and  wrists, 
with  the  shadowy  veil  falling  and 
lifting  about  her  shoulders  and  ac 
centing  her  white  hair,  with  her  lithe 
young  movement,  and  with  that 
touch  of  mysticism,  of  other-world- 
ness  in  eyes  that  shone  jewel-gray 
from  a  carved  face,  she  was  an  ar 
resting  person.  In  great  Washington, 

[35] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

packed  with  all  human  sorts,  people 
turned  to  look  at  her. 

"The  gold  star!  The  black— the 
veil !  What  a  face  of  tragedy !"  Such 
things  they  said;  more  than  once  a 
man's  hand  orept  to  his  hat,  and  he 
stood  bareheaded  as  she  passed,  as 
before  the  dead.  But  she  who  had 
lived  for  three  years  facing  an  un 
thinkable  word  drifted  through  the 
crowd  unconscious,  uncaring. 

A  newspaper  had  printed  a  com 
posite  photograph  of  twenty-nine 
young  soldiers,  one  from  each  of  the 
combat  divisions  in  France,  and  at 
breakfast  in  the  hotel  a  woman  whom 
she  had  never  seen  stepped  across  and 
laid  it,  the  picture  folded  out,  by  her 
plate. 

"It's  your  boy,  too,"  the  woman 
spoke  gently,  and  was  gone. 

[36] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

Dick's  mother  stared  at  the  vague, 
lovely  face  of  an  uncommonly  hand 
some  lad,  dreamy,  deep-eyed,  steady- 
mouthed,  a  face  rather  short  from 
brow  to  chin,  with  a  wide  facial  arch 
between  the  cheek-bones — such  as 
was  Dick's  face.  The  sweet  extreme 
of  youth  was  like  Dick,  but  a  certain 
haunting,  ethereal  quality  was  not 
like  him;  yet,  even  so  might  her  boy 
look  at  her  through  the  veil  of  an 
other  world.  There  was  in  fact  a 
manner  of  likeness,  and  to  the  woman 
whose  soul  was  at  white  heat  the 
likeness  was  the  voice  of  Heaven  say 
ing  "Amen''  to  her  possessing 
thought.  Yet  this  was  not  the  sign. 
She  would  know  that  when  it  came. 
This  was  but  an  incident,  making 
sure  faith  surer. 

All  the  steps  of  his  journey  home 

[371 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

she  had  watched  Dick — the  Un 
known.  When  the  papers  had  told 
how  Sergeant  Younger,  over  there  in 
France  at  Chalons-sur-Marne,  on 
October  24th,  would  be  sent  into  a 
room  of  the  city  hall  alone,  to  choose 
one  of  four  nameless  dead  boys  lying, 
each  so  helpless  to  plead  his  cause,  in 
four  earth-stained  coffins,  she  had 
known  well,  even  then,  which  one. 
Over  Dick's  quiet  heart  the  Sergeant 
would  lay  the  white  roses.  The 
French  town  decked  with  the  colors 
of  the  Allies;  troops  about  the  city 
hall;  an  American  flag  at  half-mast; 
an  unseen  band  playing  on  muffled 
trumpets — all  this  while  the  Sergeant 
walked  slowly  through  the  still  room 
where  the  dead  boys  waited,  and 
walked  slowly  back  and  turned  and 
went  to  the  farthest  on  the  right. 

[38] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

Dick.  He  bent  and  laid  down  the 
white  French  roses — over  Dick.  She 
was  sorry  about  the  other  boys,  yet 
Dick  meant  all  of  them.  It  was  or 
dered.  Dick  was  the  Peace  Bringer. 
She  read  how  the  inscription  carried 
the  words:  "An  Unknown  Ameri 
can  who  gave  his  life  in  the 
World  War."  She  smiled  a  little  to 
think  how  she  alone  in  the  world 
knew  the  Unknown;  how  among 
more  than  two  thousand  unidenti 
fied  soldiers  buried  on  the  battle 
fields  where  they  fell,  chosen  by 
chance  so  that  even  the  field  where  he 
had  fallen  might  never  be  placed — 
she  smiled  to  think  how  through  this 
mist  of  circumstance  she  knew  Dick. 
The  woman  was  mad,  it  might  have 
been  said,  had  any  one  known  her 
full  thought;  who  among  us,  with 

[39] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

imagination,  but  hides  a  small  corner 
of  madness  from  the  world  ? 

Flower-heaped,  carrying  the  cross  of 
the  Legion  of  Honor,  moving  like 
the  mightiest  king  through  weeping 
throngs,  Dick  came  to  the  gray  old 
cruiser  Olympia,  where  Dewey  had 
once  said:  "You  may  fire  now,  Grid- 
ley,  if  you  are  ready."  And  they  car 
ried  him  on  board,  and  a  General 
was  his  escort  home,  and  a  guard  of 
his  comrades  stood  about  him  day 
and  night  as  he  slept  among  the  flags, 
his  faded  French  roses  above  his 
breast.  The  cruiser  had  steamed  out 
from  Havre  through  dipped  flags  and 
firing  guns,  and  all  the  way  across  the 
Atlantic  she  was  saluted  by  all  ships 
large  and  small  which  sailed  within 
vision.  Because  she  carried  Dick. 
With  that  it  was  November  9th  and 

[40] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

a  raw,  foggy,  rainy  day,  but  the 
woman  went  out  from  city  noises,  in 
the  wet,  where  it  was  quiet,  to  listen 
for  something.  After  a  while  she 
heard  it — a  far  boom  of  guns — sa 
lutes  to  the  Olympia  as  she  came 
slowly  up  the  Potomac.  The  fog  hid 
her,  but  fort  after  fort,  post  after 
post,  took  up  the  tale  and  thundered 
its  solemn  welcome  to  the  nation's 
dead  boy.  The  boy's  mother  was  at 
the  Navy  Yard  when  the  ship  swung 
into  dock.  She  saw  the  crew,  standing 
high  up,  in  dark-blue  lines,  stiff,  at 
attention;  astern,  under  the  muzzle 
of  a  gun  that  had  rung  into  history 
that  May  morning  in  Manila  Bay, 
was  an  awning;  beneath  it  something 
flag-draped — Dick.  The  woman  shook 
in  a  tearless  sob.  Dick.  What  was  it 
all — all  the  glory  that  the  nations, 

[41] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

that  America  could  heap  on  him, 
when — ah,  Dick !  She  seemed  to  see 
his  eyes  and  the  deep  look  in  them  as 
he  turned  by  the  tulip-bed  and  kissed 
his  hands  to  her — as  the  Cloudless 
Sulphurs  stormed  up  from  the  clover 
around  his  blond  head.  Dick !  Her 
little,  laughing  Dick — her  big,  lov 
ing  Dick.  Then  she  was  aware  of  a 
gun  crashing,  a  band  playing  a  dirge 
— the  gun  crashing  again  into  the 
music;  it  was  the  "minute-guns  of 
sorrow"  they  were  firing.  And  then 
suddenly — a  shrill  sound  and  a  heart- 
stirring — as  they  lifted  the  coffin  to 
the  gangway,  the  boatswain,  in  the 
old  ceremony  of  the  sea,  "piped  his 
comrade  over  the  side."  Step  by 
slow  step  they  carried  the  lad  down 
and  the  boatswain's  whistle  called 
piercingly  again  as  Dick,  high  on  the 

[42] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

shoulders  of  eight  uniformed  men, 
reached  shore.  Dick  was  home.  The 
coffin  wound  between  the  lines  of 
troops  and  marines,  toward  the  gun- 
carriage,  and  the  rigid  young  blue 
jackets  far  above  watched  still  at  at 
tention,  and  with  that  a  bugler  blew 
flourishes  and  the  band  broke  into 
the  "  Star-Spangled  Banner,"  the  na 
tion's  hymn.  And  still  the  minute- 
guns  crashed  through.  And  packed 
thousands  of  plain  American  citizens 
waited  bareheaded  for  hours  in  the 
cold  rain  to  see  this  beloved  boy  of 
America  carried  by. 

Many  people  remarked  the  slender, 
tall  woman  in  her  billowy  black  veil 
with  the  gold  star  on  her  arm.  Some 
spoke  of  her.  "A  wonderful  face," 
they  said,  and:  "Her  eyes  are  burn 
ing  her  up."  And  more  than  one 

[43] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

thought:  "Who  knows?  It  may  be 
her  boy." 

After  that  she  stood  hour  after  hour 
in  a  shadowy  doorway  of  a  large 
chamber  and  watched  a  marvellous 
procession  file  past,  four  abreast. 
Hour  after  hour.  Without  ceasing 
they  came;  it  was  as  if  the  country 
poured  itself  out  in  one  draft  of 
love.  Sometimes  a  group  halted  and 
there  was  a  short  ceremony.  She  saw 
the  President  place  the  silver  shield 
with  its  forty-eight  gold  stars;  she 
saw  the  Boy  Scouts,  fresh-faced, 
sturdy  lads  such  as  Dick  had  been 
five  or  six  years  ago,  form  and  recite 
their  oath  by  Dick's  coffin;  she  saw 
the  embassies  of  England,  of  France, 
and  Italy  bring  wreaths  for  Dick; 
she  saw  the  ancient  Indian  fighters, 
led  by  General  Miles,  and  the  Bel- 

[44] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

gians  with  their  palm,  and  the  old 
man  of  ninety -one  who  wore  his  old 
Victoria  Cross,  and  Pershing,  laying 
down  his  wreath  and  stepping  back  to 
salute  his  soldier,  and  the  Chinese 
and  the  Japanese  with  their  antique 
bowing,  and  the  white-turbaned  Hin 
dus,  and  ever  and  ever  the  plain 
Americans  in  their  thousands,  "his 
own  people  from  every  nook  of  the 
nation,  who  gave  him  his  reward." 
The  short  gray  day  faded  and  night 
came  and  still  the  crowds  poured,  and 
Dick's  mother  stood,  still,  uncon 
scious  of  fatigue,  and  saw,  as  in  a 
dream,  the  pageant,  till  the  last  ones 
allowed  to  come  in  had  passed  out 
and  the  swaying  woman  in  black 
went  also,  and  the  boy  was  alone  with 
his  guard  of  five  comrades,  "his  head 
eastward  toward  France  and  at  his 

[45] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

feet  the  twinkling  lights  of  Washing 
ton."  Far  above  him  on  the  great 
dome  of  the  Capitol  the  brooding 
figure  of  Freedom,  his  comrade  also, 
watched. 

Shortly  after  daylight  next  morning 
the  tramp  of  marching  men  and  clat 
ter  of  hoofs  and  grinding  of  wheels 
before  the  Capitol  told  that  the  great 
est  parade  of  American  history  was 
forming,  and  the  khaki  tide  rolled 
into  ordered  ranks.  The  woman  saw 
this  beginning,  very  early  in  the 
morning.  She  was  there  before  the 
bugle  sounded  attention  across  the 
plaza  and  the  cavalrymen  snapped 
out  their  sabres  and  the  infantrymen 
came  to  present  and  the  officers  to 
salute  and  the  colors  were  dipped — 
and  the  sun  sent  a  beam  to  Freedom 
on  the  dome  and  another  to  a  casket 

[46] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

moving  through  the  doorway.  She 
saw  it  carried  down  the  long  steps  by 
the  bravest  of  the  brave,  all  deco 
rated  men,  and  placed  on  the  black- 
draped  caisson  with  its  black  horses, 
and  its  soldiers  sat  on  their  scarlet 
saddle-cloths.  She  saw  that,  and  she 
saw  the  President  and  "Black  Jack" 

[Pershing,  Commander-in-Chief  of  the 
A.  E.  F.,  following  as  chief  mourners 
— Pershing  wearing,  of  all  his  deco 
rations,  only  the  Victory  Medal  to 
which  every  American  soldier  has  a 
right — the  caisson  where  lay — Dick. 
She  saw  the  crowds  dense  up  Penn 
sylvania  Avenue,  the  historic  road 
"where  the  tramping  ghosts  of 
Grant's  legions  marked  a  course." 
She  saw  the  silent,  attentive  thou 
sands  who  packed  the  sidewalks, 
standing  there  to  take  their  part  in 

[47] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

what  was  theirs,  the  glory  of  the 
American  people.  "Out  in  the  broad 
avenue  was  a  simple  soldier,  dead  for 
the  honor  of  the  flag.  In  France  he 
had  died  as  Americans  have  always 
been  ready  to  die,  for  the  flag  and 
what  it  meant."  The  woman  saw  the 
massed,  reverent  faces,  and  read  this 
in  them. 

"It's  Dick,"  she  said. 

Later,  not  remembering  very  much 
how  she  had  come,  she  found  herself 
at  Arlington,  at  the  Amphitheatre, 
with  yet  more  thousands.  There  were 
bright  colors  of  foreign  dress  uni 
forms  and  masses  of  khaki  and  light 
and  shadow  and  the  snowy  gleam  of 
columns  against  a  background  of 
trees.  Later  there  was  distant,  solemn 
music  through  the  trees.  From  the 
direction  of  the  fort  the  dim  color 
of  troops  came  nearer  and  nearer, 

[48] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

clearer  and  clearer;  the  marine  band, 
half-step  to  the  throb  of  drums, 
swung  out  and  circled  the  colonnade. 
The  caisson  rolled  up  where  a  white- 
surpliced  choir  waited,  and  men  in 
uniform  with  medals  on  their  breasts 
lifted  Dick,  and  the  choir  sang  "The 
Son  of  God  Goes  Forth  to  War." 
They  carried  him  past  the  troops  with 
rifles  at  "present,"  past  the  bare 
headed  people,  through  the  pillared 
colonnade,  with  the  white  choir  and 
the  clergy  leading  them,  the  great 
of  many  lands  awaiting  him.  They 
placed  him  on  a  catafalque,  flower- 
covered,  and  the  great  audience,  all 
the  thousands,  rose  and  stood  as 
he  passed  in — Dick — with  Pershing 
still  following,  Pershing  who  had 
trudged  seven  miles  from  the  Capitol 
behind  his  soldier. 
The  coffin  rested  on  its  base  as  if 

[49] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

held  up  by  a  mound  of  blossoms — 
and  suddenly  the  woman  felt  stabbed 
with  a  knife,  a  frantic,  unbearable 
feeling.  Her  boy  lay  there  with  no 
sign  of  her  near  him.  The  nation  had 
heaped  him  with  honor,  but  Dick 
would  not  be  satisfied  with  the  na 
tion,  missing  his  mother.  In  her  hand 
was  a  bunch  of  roses;  she  wondered 
where  she  had  gotten  them,  and 
vaguely  recalled  a  florist's  shop  on 
the  way  out.  She  sprang  toward  a 
guard,  a  soldier,  and  the  man  stared 
at  her  as  people  did. 

"Put  these — put  these — right  close 
to  him,"  she  begged  in  sliding  South 
ern  speech.  "He's — he's  my  boy." 
The  soldier  little  guessed  how  literal 
the  words  were  to  her,  but  they  went 
direct  to  his  heart.  A  boy  of  hers  lay 
in  France;  this  one  stood  for  him;  so 

[50] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 
he  understood  it.  "Yes,  ina'ain,"  he 
said  gently. 

He  took  the  flowers  and  went  away 
with  them  and  in  a  moment  she  saw 
them  laid  on  the  coffin,  their  white 
heads  against  a  gorgeous  wreath  of 
red  roses.  The  President's  red  roses — 
but  the  woman  did  not  know  that. 
The  man  came  back  then  and  found 
her  a  place  in  one  of  the  first  rows  of 
the  curving  line  of  seats  where  were 
only  men  and  women  in  black. 

The  mighty  service  went  on.  The 
woman  going  through  it  with  the 
others  seemed  aware  of  it  through 
another's  senses,  as  if  she  were  re 
moved  where  her  consciousness  could 
not  make  contact  with  anything 
earthly.  This  was  Dick's  funeral,  but 
she  was  not  sad.  Only  fused  to  a 
hazy  exaltation.  Maybe  Dick's  light- 

[51] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

hearted  spirit  was  there,  hovering 
over  all  this  and  lifting  her  spirit  with 
him.  In  any  case  her  flowers  lay  close 
to  him,  clinging  whitely  against  that 
blood-red  wreath.  They  must  be,  she 
was  guessing,  just  above  where  the 
withered  little  French  roses  rested 
still  on  Dick's  dear  cold  heart.  To 
see  them  there  brought  a  manner  of 
comfort  to  her.  And  the  service  went 
on.  As  Bishop  Brent's  voice  ended, 
the  bells  over  in  Washington  were 
ringing  noon,  and  sharply  the  clear, 
high  notes  of  a  trumpeter  blew  atten 
tion.  She  stood  up  with  the  thou 
sands,  the  millions,  the  nation.  For 
the  nation  paused  during  two  min 
utes  then  to  honor — Dick.  All  over 
America,  in  churches,  in  market 
places,  on  railway  lines,  the  rushing 
life  of  the  country  stopped  and  the 

[52] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

populace  stood  silent  with  bowed 
heads  for  that  tremendous  moment, 
honoring  the  men  who  had  died. 

Then  it  was  over;  a  minute-gun 
boomed  across  the  river  at  the  base  of 
the  Washington  Monument;  led  by 
the  band  the  stirred  multitude  swung 
into  "America." 

"My  country,  'tis  of  thee,"  the  peo 
ple  sang.  And  the  woman  sang  with 
them.  She  could;  she  was  dry -eyed 
and  calm;  this  was  Dick's  funeral, 
her  little  boy  Dick,  her  splendid,  big 
son.  Yet  she  seemed  to  feel  nothing. 
The  Lord  God  was  going  to  give  her 
a  sign  that  it  was  Dick.  She  was 
anxious  about  that.  Certain,  yes,  of 
course;  but  a  sign  was  to  come. 
Nervousness  caught  her  as  the  Presi 
dent  began  to  speak;  she  wished  the 
Lord  God  would  hurry;  it  would  do 

[53] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

at  any  time,  surely,  yet  this  strain 
of  waiting  was  difficult.  It  was  hard 
to  listen  to  the  President  while  one 
was  watching  every  moment  for  the 
sign.  And  with  that  his  voice  had 
slipped  into  words  as  familiar  as  her 
own  name,  words  which  she  had 
taught  to  Dick. 

"Our  Father  which  art  in  Heav 
en " 

There  was  a  soft,  many-rustling 
sound  of  thousands  rising,  and  all  the 
voices  took  up  the  age-old  words: 

"Hallowed  be  Thy  Name— Thy 
will  be  done." 

Yes,  indeed.  The  Lord  God  knew 
that  she  had  bowed  to  His  will,  even 
as  to  that  word  "missing."  She  sup 
posed  it  was  His  will.  She  had  borne 
it,  somehow.  But  now  that  Dick  was 
dead,  and  carried  home  all  these 

[54] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

miles,  bringing  peace  in  his  quiet 
hands,  now  the  Lord  God  ought  to 
give  her  the  sign.  He  ought,  really. 
With  that  a  quartet  was  singing 
something  about  how 

"Splendid  they  passed,  the  great  sur 
render  made 

Into  the  light  that  nevermore  shall 
fade." 

Oh,  yes.  But  one  doesn't  care  so 
much  about  splendor  and  unfading 
light — when  one  misses  Dick.  The 
comforting  thing  was  that  Dick  was 
to  bring  peace — peace  forever.  He 
would  care  about  that;  that  would 
make  him  glad.  And  there  was  going 
to  be  a  sign  that  this  boy,  this  Un 
known  Soldier  coming  from  his  grave 
in  France  at  the  very  moment  of  the 
Peace  Conference — that  this  boy  was 

[55] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

Dick.  How  could  she  be  otherwise 
than  restless  till  the  sign  came? 

Back  of  the  carved,  calm  face  in 
which  the  gray  Irish  eyes  glowed 
such  thoughts  were  seething.  Law 
yers  weighing  evidence  would  hardly 
have  found  her  argument  valid.  The 
desperate  brain  which  made  them 
more  than  half  knew  the  sophistry. 
But  the  brain  was  desperate.  One 
cannot  face  the  word  "missing"  for 
many  months  and  keep  coolly  logical. 
This  was  the  last  straw  to  hold  her  to 
sanity-H:hat  Dick  was  the  Peace 
Bringer;  that  this  boy  was  Dick. 
These  things  she  must  believe.  Must. 

Quietly  she  gazed  as  minute  by 
splendid  minute  passed,  each  crowd 
ed  with  such  things  as  America  has 
never  seen  before.  She  watched  an 
officer  in  uniform,  a  "Sam  Browne" 

[56] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

belt  across  his  breast,  step  forward. 
What  were  they  going  to  do  now? 
The  officer  shifted  the  flowers  toward 
the  foot,  and  she  gasped  as  the  Presi 
dent's  great  red  wreath  was  moved; 
her  roses  were  next;  it  was  too  bad  to 
take  her  roses  away  from  Dick.  But 
see — they  were  left.  The  officer 
touched  them,  and  left  them;  the 
little  sheaf  was  not  in  the  way.  But 
what  was  going  to  happen  ?  He  rolled 
back  the  flag  with  its  heavy  gold 
fringe,  and  with  that  the  President 
stood  there  and  was  reading  some 
thing — citations — reverently,  in  his 
incisive  voice;  then  he  bent  and 
pinned  two  precious  things  to  the 
black  cloth  of  the  coffin — the  Dis 
tinguished  Service  Cross  and  that 
which  Americans  believe  the  highest 
decoration  in  the  world,  the  Con- 

[57] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

gressional  Medal  of  Honor.  How 
pleased  Dick  would  have  been ! 

"Won  in  mortality  to  be  worn  in 
immortality,"  spoke  the  President. 

Was  Dick's  gay  spirit  maybe  even 
now  hovering,  watching  it  all,  smil 
ing  the  sweet,  half-shy,  one-sided 
smile  she  knew,  laughing  at  himself 
a  bit  for  being  the  centre  of  this  stu 
pendous  ceremony  ?  In  quick  succes 
sion  one  brilliant  uniform  succeeded 
another  by  the  narrow  box,  each  fast 
ening  to  the  black  cloth  an  honor 
which  men  have  died  to  win.  Some 
thing  contracted  her  throat  with  a 
short  sob  when  General  Jacques,  the 
Belgian,  unpinned  from  his  own  coat 
the  Cross  of  War  which  his  King  had 
put  there  and  placed  it  on  Dick's 
coffin.  And  was  not  that  Foch  who 
swept  off  his  white-plumed  Marshal's 

[58] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 
hat  before  the  presence  of — Dick? 
How  Dick  would  have  taken  in  the 
scarlet  baldric,  the  gold  sash,  and 
red  trousers !  Dick  had  an  enormous 
enthusiasm  for  Foch;  once  he  had 
seen  him — a  solemn  old  fellow  in  a 
faded  horizon-blue  uniform  and  very 
muddy  boots,  the  letter  said.  Smok 
ing  a  pipe. 

Medal  after  medal;  such  an  array  as 
the  greatest  soldier  on  earth  had 
never  worn.  They  rolled  back  the  flag 
over  it  all  till  the  judgment  day,  and 
Sergeant  Woodfill  and  the  seven 
other  heroes  lifted  Dick  again  and 
carried  him  down  the  marble  steps. 
The  band  was  playing  "Our  Hon 
ored  Dead";  she  raised  her  eyes  and 
saw  the  city  across  the  river;  the 
dome  of  the  Capitol  under  which 
Dick  had  slept  last  night;  where 

[59] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

only  dead  Presidents  had  ever  slept 
before;  nearer  was  the  yellow  of 
ploughed  Virginia  fields  and  the  green 
of  winter  wheat;  about  them  the 
snowy  white  of  the  great  Amphithea 
tre,  and  directly  beneath  the  boy  as 
they  carried  him  around  was  "a  great 
splash  of  black — thousands  of  Amer 
icans  with  hats  held  in  their  hands." 
Between  these  and  the  Amphitheatre 
was  a  white  place  with  a  hole  in  it. 
Dick's  grave.  She  moved  dreamily 
toward  that  place,  and  people  stood 
back  for  the  black,  lonely  figure  with 
its  gold  star.  Unconscious  of  them, 
she  passed  till  she  was  close  enough 
to  see  everything. 

"It  will  be  now,  I  think,"  she  was 
saying.  "The  Lord  God  will  send  His 
sign  when  they  put  Dick " 

The  rest  of  the  words  couldn't  be 

[60] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

framed.  Of  course  Dick's  soul  wasn't 
there;  it  was  somewhere  about,  above, 
close — much  interested  and  a  good 
deal  amused  as  well  as  thrilled;  she 
felt  that.  This  was  only  Dick's  body 
they  were  putting  away  covered  with 
medals  and  flowers,  laid  on  that  price 
less  earth  brought  from  France,  scat 
tered  down  for  him  to  rest  on.  It  was 
only  his  body.  But  such  a  precious, 
dear  body ;  it  had  been  so  warm  and 
strong —  Oh,  God !  She  alone  out  of 
the  thousands  knew  that  it  was  Dick, 
and  even  she —  The  Lord  God  cer 
tainly  was  slow  about  sending  His 
sign. 

The  beautiful  church  service  was 
read;  Dick's  soul  was  committed  to 
God  and  his  body  to  the  grave. 
Some  one  touched  a  silver  bar  and 
the  coffin  sank  slowly;  a  man  in  uni- 

[61] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

form  placed  a  final  wreath — from  all 
the  men  of  all  our  fighting  armies. 
Then  an  old  Indian  in  magnificence 
of  chief's  feathers  hobbled  up  and 
took  off  his  sweeping  war-bonnet, 
whose  white  feathers  trailed  to  his 
moccasins,  and  laid  it  with  a  sort  of 
stick  across  the  open  tomb.  It  was 
the  last  tribute.  The  warrior  of  an 
cient  America  saluted  America's  war 
rior  of  to-day.  A  salvo  of  artillery. 
Another  salvo — and  another.  The 
woman  stared  about.  Dick  would 
bivouac  to-night  in  great  company. 
All  around  him  were  monuments  cut 
with  names  that  were  echoes  of 
thunder  of  guns.  There  lay  Porter 
and  Crook;  yonder  lay  Dewey.  The 
slope  carries  along  innumerable  head 
stones;  over  the  ridge  are  the  grass 
ramparts  of  old  Fort  Myer,  graves 

[62] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

thick  about  them;  she  sensed  these 
things  as  the  guns  rang  the  salvoes. 
The  guns  had  stopped;  a  bugler, 
standing  out,  was  playing  "Taps" — 
the  soldier's  good  night.  With  the 
final  silver  note  the  artillery  broke 
into  the  roar  of  the  national  salute  of 
twenty-one  guns.  The  crowds  moved, 
shifted,  thinned.  The  bright  uniforms 
scattered  and  disappeared.  But  the 
tall,  black  figure  stood  there,  con 
scious  of  the  people  only  as  a  swim 
mer  in  deep  water  is  conscious  of  the 
waves.  She  was  in  them,  of  them, 
but  they  had  no  personality  for  her. 
Slowly  the  huge  audience  spread 
away  through  the  trees.  The  pageant 
was  over.  The  pageant — what  matter 
was  that?  Dick;  Dick  was  dead  and 
buried,  and  she  stood  by  the  grave 
of  an  Unknown  Soldier  and  re- 

[63] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

preached  God.  He  had  sent  her  no 
sign  that  this  boy  was  hers.  Down 
among  the  new  white  crosses  in  the 
cemetery  below  moved  figures;  there 
are  always  figures  moving  among 
those  crosses — but  the  woman  felt 
herself  alone.  All  the  pomp  and  cere 
mony  being  finished,  she  was  alone 
with  her  boy.  She  knelt  near  the  new 
grave;  the  black  veil  blew  about  her, 
covering  and  uncovering  the  gold  star 
on  her  sleeve. 

"God,"  she  whispered,  "bless  the 
men  to-morrow  who  are  trying  to 
bring  peace.  I  don't  know  whether 
they  know  that  it's  Dick  who's  bring 
ing  it  or  not.  I  don't  care.  I  know, 
God,  and  You  know.  Only  let  Dick 
be  the  Peace  Bringer,  and  let  an 
American  speak  the  master  word.  I 
thought  the  sign  would  be  to-day,  but 

[64] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

I'll  be  patient  if  it  isn't  to  be  to-day. 
But,  mighty  God,  don't  fail  me  in  the 
end.  You  know  how  I  couldn't  bear 
that.  It  means  having  Dick  again — 
ever — somehow — I  can't  say  it  well, 
but  you're  God  and  You  know  how 
those  things  are  tied  together.  Peace 
and  Dick's  immortality  and  the  sign. 
Be  merciful;  give  it  to  me." 

A  week  later  in  Kentucky  blunt  lit 
tle  Lynnette  was  reasoning  with  her. 
"You  can't  expect  to  set  a  date  with 
the  Almighty,"  reasoned  Lynnette, 
"I  think  it  will  come — I  do  think  so, 
though  I  don't  know  why  I  think  it. 
Only  that  such  a  longing  as  yours 
focussed  on  one  thing  must  be  a 
psychological  force.  And,  whatever 
God  is,  He  does  answer  prayer  some 
how." 

"Yes,  He  does,"  said  the  woman. 

[65] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

"Wasn't  Hughes'  word  sent  straight 
as  lightning  from  heaven?  It  came 
the  day  after  the  funeral — Dick's  fu 
neral.  It  came  out  of  Dick's  tomb.  I 
can't  help  believing  the  good  Lord 
did  plan,  along  with  the  salvation  of 
the  nations,  to  make  Dick  His  Peace 
Bringer."  She  waited  a  moment, 
eyes  glowing  with  deep  light.  Then: 
"  'Whatsoever  ye  ask  in  My  name, 
believing,  ye  shall  receive  it.'  ri  A 
thousand  times  she  had  repeated 
that. 

Lynnette  nodded  practically.  "Uh- 
huh,  that  says  it.  God  certainly  did 
stir  up  Hughes  when  he  got  off  that 
proposition.  Why  shouldn't  we  be 
lieve  it  was  partly,  anyhow,  the  huge 
emotion  of  the  Unknown  Soldier  that 
pushed  him?  The  sign  may  come  in 
some  shape  you're  not  dreaming. 

[66] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 
Likely  it  will — but  it'll  come.  I'm 


sure." 


"I  can't  imagine  in  what  shape — 
that  terrifies  me  at  times.  It  seems 
so  impossible.  And  if  it  shouldn't 
come!" 

"You  mustn't  think  that/'  re 
buked  Lynnette.  "It  depends  so 
much  on  psychology,  and  your  will 
may  be  a  big  part.  You  don't  have  to 
imagine  what  it  will  be.  Yet  I — do 
imagine  things." 

"You  do?  What?" 

"Oh,  well,"  Lynnette  answered  slow 
ly,  "nothing  definite.  Sometimes  I 
fancy  that  the  identity  wasn't  lost 
to  everybody,  over  in  France.  That 
maybe  the  soldiers  who— who  brought 
the  four  boys  from  the  cemeteries 
found  something  to  mark  them,  or 
one  of  them,  and  just  said  nothing 

[67] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

about  it.  Maybe  one  of  those  sol 
diers  might  come  to  you.  Why,"  ex 
ploded  Lynnette,  "two  or  three  times 
when  I've  seen  a  young,  military- 
looking  chap  coming  down  this  street 
my  heart  has  been  in  my  mouth.  I've 
said: 'He's  the  sign.'" 

"You  have?"  cried  the  woman. 
And  then,  with  her  arms  reaching: 
"You  little  Lynnette!  You  loved 
Dick." 

Lynnette  nodded.  "And  Dick — 
loved  me,"  she  whispered. 

She  sprang  up,  and  was  gone.  Out 
side  she  stopped  a  moment,  staring  at 
the  sodden,  round  spot,  half  filled 
with  snow,  which  had  been  a  bed  of 
dancing  tulips. 

"I  wonder  if  it's  a  crime,"  she  re 
flected.  "The  engine  skips.  There's  no 
logic  anywhere.  But  she'd  go  raving 

[68] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

mad.  And  I  love  her."  Little,  aggres 
sive  Lynnette  flushed  all  by  herself. 
"Dick  left  me,  in  a  sort  of  way,  to  his 
mother.  He  said:  'Be  sweet  to  her, 
Lynnette.'  Well,"  Lynnette  ended 
defiantly,  "I  reckon  I  can  lie  a  good 
while  longer,  if  it  helps  her." 

It  is  queer,  considering  what  a  small 
accident  and  what  a  second  of  time 
may  end  a  life,  that  so  many  lives 
weather  appalling  shocks  and  years 
of  heart-break.  The  woman,  going 
softly  with  an  ear  alert  always  to 
catch  a  message,  found  that  winter 
was  past  and  spring  coming  in  over 
night  jumps  to  her  Southern  land. 
With  it  the  restlessness  of  spring 
crystallized  into  an  overwhelming  ne 
cessity  to  see  the  white  tomb  at  Ar 
lington.  It  was  imperative,  that  de 
sire.  There  was  no  money  for  travel- 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

ling  expenses,  but  some  old  mahogany 
went  to  a  dealer,  and  on  an  April  day 
she  started.  Spring  comes  easily  in 
the  South.  It  is  much  as  if  the  lover 
you  doubted  turned  all  at  once  his 
face  toward  you  lighted  with  the  fire 
unmistakable,  and  you  wondered  in 
the  warm  flood  of  happiness  if  ever 
you  did  doubt.  So  in  the  turn  of  a 
hand  in  that  God's  country  there  are 
vivid  colors  of  tulips  and  jonquils  and 
hyacinths — gold  and  purple  and  pink 
— and  the  hedges  are  dim  with  mists 
of  juicy  color,  and  the  lawns  have 
sprung  to  emerald,  and  the  sunlight 
stipples  the  ground  with  gold  laugh 
ter  through  the  lace  of  boughs.  And 
one  wonders  if  ever  there  was  melting 
snow  and  cold  wind.  Out  at  Arling 
ton  the  sunlight  played  gaily  on  the 
headstones  among  the  trees,  dancing 

[70] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

about  the  solemn  things  as  if  to  say 
that,  after  all,  life  is  only  a  moment; 
that  it  is  sweet  and  fitting  to  die  for 
one's  country,  and  that  these  light- 
hearted  dead  should  be  kept  in  bright 
memory.  Till  it  came  to  the  snow 
of  the  Amphitheatre  and  the  white 
tomb  on  the  terrace,  and  there  the 
sunlight  seemed  to  pour  itself  out  in 
full-hearted  golden  tide.  Dreamily, 
mystically,  smilingly  it  wrapped  in 
its  arms  the  grave  of  America's  boy. 
All  about  the  tomb  the  grass  seemed 
greener,  and  the  air  of  a  richer  sweet 
ness.  Fold  on  fold  the  calm  hills 
dropped  away  to  the  Virginia  hori 
zon;  the  mast  of  the  Maine  brought 
from  Havana  shot  its  slender  spire 
beyond  the  Amphitheatre;  the  old 
house  of  history,  the  pillared,  por- 
ticoed  house  of  the  Lees,  peered  out 

[71] 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

from  the  woods  like  a  big,  gentle, 
dumb  creature,  watching  in  its  old 
age  its  family  who  had  fought  and 
come  through  to  Peace. 

The  woman  scattered  a  quantity  of 
yellow  tulips  on  the  grave  till  it  was 
all  golden  with  them.  "God,"  she 
prayed,  kneeling  close — closer  than 
she  could  be  in  November — "God, 
I've  come  such  a  long  way.  I've 
waited  such  a  long  time.  Only  You 
can  give  what  I've  come  for.  I  want 
it  so.  Give  me  Your  sign."  A  long 
time  the  black  figure  knelt  amidst  the 
whiteness  and  greenness  and  spring 
gaiety.  Many  things  she  prayed,  and 
at  the  last  for  power  to  give  up  hope. 
For  there  was  yet  no  sign.  Perhaps 
there  never  would  be.  Sobbing  a  lit 
tle,  she  bent  and  kissed  the  yellow 
tulips,  and  turned  to  go. 


YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 

As  she  drifted  away  step  by  step 
suddenly  the  bells  over  in  Washing 
ton  were  ringing  the  noon-hour,  and 
she  faced  about,  remembering.  As 
she  turned,  up  from  the  grass  below, 
over  the  white  edge  of  the  terrace, 
stormed  a  fluttering  mass  of  bright 
wings,  and  filled  all  the  air  with  beck 
oning  gold.  A  moment  they  hung, 
twinkling  over  the  tomb,  and  then 
fell,  brilliant,  incredible,  and  lighted 
on  the  gold  cups  of  the  tulips,  and 
flickering,  dancing,  gathered  the  sun 
light  into  their  myriad  wings. 

The  Cloudless  Sulphurs;  Dick's  but 
terflies;  the  symbol  of  immortality. 
The  sign. 


[73] 


YB  59623 


